Sherlock Holmes (Ruler) (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
improbablenotimpossible) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
yogen2021-05-04 06:41 pm
improbablenotimpossible) wrote in yogen2021-05-04 06:41 pm
Entry tags:
Case 1: the Exhausted Detective
Who: Sherlock Holmes, and Open
What: Sherlock and the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad week
Where: Around the school
When: First week of May
Warning: Talk of trauma, drug use mention likely, and self-inflicted sleep deprivation
A. May 1, past midnight
[It's too quiet, he hates it - it's unnatural, there should be something to make a sound, any sound - and part of his mind keeps asking quietly 'Perhaps you had gone deaf?', but he's well aware that's just paranoid thinking but it doesn't make it stop. And this sickly white mist hardly made things any better, this bloated feeling… if he had his library, perhaps he’d know what kind of toxin it is. A flash of pink catches his attention… Stephanie? That girl really shouldn’t be out…
Yet no one was here when he turned, his eyes scanning, no… she couldn’t have disappeared that fast. Perhaps he’s just… wonderful, he’s seeing things. Was it really Miss Meanswell though, the color reminded him more of -
Before he could make sense of what just happened, there was a voice, a deep voice, whispering in a way that sounded so loud in the stillness, his heart leaping right up into his throat, and a clamminess settled over his skin as the words wormed their way into him.
A thinking machine? Your brain rules over your heart? And yet here you are, trembling like a child
It’s so achingly familiar even with the mockery that never had been paired with that voice, as the name of the dear friend settle on the tip of his tongue, another voice sneers at him, high, feminine and far more youthful than it should be given her age.
Hardly a machine that can think, are you Sigerson? If you were so smart why did I die? We both know it’s your foolishness that killed me.
The petite figure again appeared in the corner of his eye and again she vanished when he tried to look at her, for a moment it seems like when she vanished all there was left was a patch of snow, dyed scarlet before it too faded. As she vanished, a man, a broad-shoulder, perfectly average man in every sense but the cold, dismissive way he seems to look up at him, again never clear, again vanishing.
…Hallucination, they’re just hallucinations, neither Helena nor John would talk to him in such a manner, they’re not even here. He’s fine, he’ll be fine – he must endure. Damn it! Why is his heart refusing to calm? He was in no danger! Clear his mind, deep, steady breathes, like the Monks had taught him, clear his...
I merely tolerated you, all you were to me is just a means of paying the rent.
His back hits against the wall near his locker, sliding down as he pulls his knees to his chest, shivering, his breath shallow and fast, no matter how hard he tried to focus, his mind scattered into flashes of regret and fear, his heart hammering away against his ribs, and the voices won't stop]
B. May 3, day time
[With the gaming club came game boards, and ways to distract himself, he sets up a chessboard, frowning slightly as several black pieces were placed in different spots, and a sole white piece - the rook is placed, not a game but a puzzle of some kind.
He kept at it for what seem like hours, but the longer he continues the more he seems to drift off, almost in danger of face planting against the board before he jerks, pinching himself - clearly trying to keep from nodding off.
Hm.
When he spots someone, he quickly sits up and inclines his head]
Would you like to join me?
C. May 5
[The library was quickly becoming the place where one can find the Detective easily, constantly looking at or reading books, frowning before he gets up and paces, before returning with another book, before setting that one aside, writing things down every once in a while in a very hurried script that somehow manages to be perfectly legitiable. The books themselves seem to be an almost random mix of a wide range of topics with no visible rhyme or reason behind them being on the table, he glances up, opening his mouth before closing them, still getting used to the fact no one comes out in this place]
D. Wildcard
((need Sherlock for anything else? want to brainstorm? hit me up at![[plurk.com profile]](https://plurk.com/favicon.ico)
RShini))
What: Sherlock and the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad week
Where: Around the school
When: First week of May
Warning: Talk of trauma, drug use mention likely, and self-inflicted sleep deprivation
A. May 1, past midnight
[It's too quiet, he hates it - it's unnatural, there should be something to make a sound, any sound - and part of his mind keeps asking quietly 'Perhaps you had gone deaf?', but he's well aware that's just paranoid thinking but it doesn't make it stop. And this sickly white mist hardly made things any better, this bloated feeling… if he had his library, perhaps he’d know what kind of toxin it is. A flash of pink catches his attention… Stephanie? That girl really shouldn’t be out…
Yet no one was here when he turned, his eyes scanning, no… she couldn’t have disappeared that fast. Perhaps he’s just… wonderful, he’s seeing things. Was it really Miss Meanswell though, the color reminded him more of -
Before he could make sense of what just happened, there was a voice, a deep voice, whispering in a way that sounded so loud in the stillness, his heart leaping right up into his throat, and a clamminess settled over his skin as the words wormed their way into him.
A thinking machine? Your brain rules over your heart? And yet here you are, trembling like a child
It’s so achingly familiar even with the mockery that never had been paired with that voice, as the name of the dear friend settle on the tip of his tongue, another voice sneers at him, high, feminine and far more youthful than it should be given her age.
Hardly a machine that can think, are you Sigerson? If you were so smart why did I die? We both know it’s your foolishness that killed me.
The petite figure again appeared in the corner of his eye and again she vanished when he tried to look at her, for a moment it seems like when she vanished all there was left was a patch of snow, dyed scarlet before it too faded. As she vanished, a man, a broad-shoulder, perfectly average man in every sense but the cold, dismissive way he seems to look up at him, again never clear, again vanishing.
…Hallucination, they’re just hallucinations, neither Helena nor John would talk to him in such a manner, they’re not even here. He’s fine, he’ll be fine – he must endure. Damn it! Why is his heart refusing to calm? He was in no danger! Clear his mind, deep, steady breathes, like the Monks had taught him, clear his...
I merely tolerated you, all you were to me is just a means of paying the rent.
His back hits against the wall near his locker, sliding down as he pulls his knees to his chest, shivering, his breath shallow and fast, no matter how hard he tried to focus, his mind scattered into flashes of regret and fear, his heart hammering away against his ribs, and the voices won't stop]
B. May 3, day time
[With the gaming club came game boards, and ways to distract himself, he sets up a chessboard, frowning slightly as several black pieces were placed in different spots, and a sole white piece - the rook is placed, not a game but a puzzle of some kind.
He kept at it for what seem like hours, but the longer he continues the more he seems to drift off, almost in danger of face planting against the board before he jerks, pinching himself - clearly trying to keep from nodding off.
Hm.
When he spots someone, he quickly sits up and inclines his head]
Would you like to join me?
C. May 5
[The library was quickly becoming the place where one can find the Detective easily, constantly looking at or reading books, frowning before he gets up and paces, before returning with another book, before setting that one aside, writing things down every once in a while in a very hurried script that somehow manages to be perfectly legitiable. The books themselves seem to be an almost random mix of a wide range of topics with no visible rhyme or reason behind them being on the table, he glances up, opening his mouth before closing them, still getting used to the fact no one comes out in this place]
D. Wildcard
((need Sherlock for anything else? want to brainstorm? hit me up at
A
He'd just woken up from the last time he'd collapsed due to his endless wandering, the voices and glimpses in the corner of his eyes as frequent as ever.
It was past midnight - that much was obvious, given his inability to speak and the lack of all noise. But as he rounded the corner and went down a hall, he saw the collapsed body of his nemesis, curled up and shaking.
What a pitiful sight - one that he should never be in.
So, then - Moriarty stepped forward, bending down and placing a hand on the man's shoulder to knock him out of the fit he was currently under.
...Of course, he expected the man to lash out, but it wasn't as if he could give him a heads up with all noise being silenced.
cw: mention of how corpses can look?
How did it feel, my blood staining-
His mouth opens in a silent gasp, eyes so wide that his iris was completely surrounded by white, pupils merely pinpricks as he twists away without really seeing what he was trying to escape from.
The jolt of pain as his shoulder hits the locker shocks him out of it, as he realized the man before him wasn't dripping wet, wasn't bloated and bloody-eyed. His chest was still heaving, trying to suck in air, but he can focus, his brows knitting as he got a good look at Moriarty]
no subject
Moriarty gives a silent shrug - as if to say sorry, it's me - before tugging on the shoulder he still hasn't let go of.
Come on, Holmes. Get up. You're better than this - then this hallucinogenic gas, than this school.]
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It's hard to believe he's actually relieved to see his Nemesis, but he was - something that was real and didn't prey on things he had had sleep over while alive]
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...whatever would be affecting him in this sort of situation.
He holds out a hand, seeing Holmes attempting to push himself up - Adrenaline makes one shaky, after all, and he's currently steady as he can be.]
no subject
no subject
A place to rest, if just for now.]
no subject
C. / two detectives walk into a bar.
< quietly, she approaches, so as not to disturb the detective, and when he looks up, she gestures to one of the many mismatched books he has on the table. >
' i was going to ask to borrow that. ' < she says this calmly. if she was younger, she might have been blunter, angrier. but she's an adult now, and there is far too much anger in the world already for kirigiri kyouko to add to it. > ' but it seems like you had something you wanted to say. yen for your thoughts. '
no subject
Then he pulls out a clean sheet of paper, and write - gesturing towards the librarian some ways away, his own handwriting is of a somewhat messy but still very legible block print]
I was attempting to sort out my thoughts as I was writing down what information could be useful for us to have on hand.